The Red Death Held Sway Over All
by The XIIIth Card
Summary: [DISCONTINUED] When Harry Potter dies aged eight, a trio of Death Gods take interest in his existence and the prophecy surrounding him. Look out world, Harry Potter is coming and he may not be quite what you expected...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**** Hello~!****This ****is ****my ****first ****published ****Fanfic ,****so ****I**** would**** really**** appreciate ****you**** telling ****me**** what ****you**** think**_._**So ****please ****leave**** a ****review ,****don't ****be ****shy.**

**Warnings: As of this writing, nothing that should exceed the T rating. There are no pairings though there is a warning for Grell being Grell (anyone familiar with the Kuroshitsuji will know what I mean ;P) Although self-identified as female, for the sake of simplicity Grell will be referred to with male pronouns. If you see any blatantly obvious mistakes I might have missed, please message me, though remember that I am English and use English-English spelling not American English.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry potter or Kuroshitsuji. They belong to J.K. Rowling and Yana Toboso respectively. The first paragraph is an excerpt from 'The Tale of The Three Brothers' which is also J.K. Rowling's. I make no money from this fic, it is purely for (hopeful) entertainment value.**_

* * *

_There were once three brothers travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. In time the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across. However these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure._

_And Death spoke to them…_

The figure that stood before the Peverell brothers was, in fact, 'Death.' Not that he was the only 'Death' by any means. If he were he'd have to be omnipresent or something, which he was not. Though he had a theory that if you combined the essence of every Death God in existence it would be possible to have a Death God that was all-knowing and all-seeing. But really, what fun would there be in that?

"Hehehe~ you're early you know. I almost missed you." 'Death' tapped a long, sable-coloured fingernail against his lips, which were upturned in a grin.

He wasn't really what a person would typically picture Death to look like. He wasn't a skeleton for one thing, though he did grin an awful lot. He had long silver hair that hung over his eyes, which, if you had seen them, were an unusual blend of deep gold and bright green. The only things about him that seemed to fit the stereotype were the long black robe he wore, and the fact that he actually did use a scythe to reap human souls (though he didn't seem to be carrying it at this particular moment).

The reason for that was quite simple. He wasn't here to reap anyone, so there was really no reason to go swinging scythes about (dangerous you know—could have someone's eye out!) He was just playing courier. His job today was simple, find the Peverell brothers and give them 'the items'.

Apparently it was all preparation for some prophecy that wouldn't be set into motion for another millennia or so. Talk about planning ahead. He wasn't completely sure of all the details, but it seemed it was going to turn out to be another one of those Good vs. Evil, "we're so much better than you!" things, where Heaven and Hell constantly try and one up each other in the universe's proverbial chess match. Only unlike chess the rules were far from simple and prone to change often, and all the pieces were pawns, and one pawn is not necessarily equal to the others.

Death Gods however, are a neutral party with no particular ties to either realm. Their only duty was to collect and guide the souls of the dead. It was for this reason that it fell to him to be delivery boy. Well in truth it fell to him in particular as he'd lost the deciding game of stone, parchment and scythe.

The youngest brother eyed him warily. "I assume that you're Death," he asked in a tone that implied it was less of a question and more a statement of fact. His elder brothers paled considerably.

Still grinning widely, 'Death' nodded agreeably. "Oh? Yes~! I suppose I am at that."

"Well then, I will ask—have you come for our souls?"

'Death' made a noise that Ignotus refused to call a laugh because laughter did not make him feel so uneasy. It didn't even sound deliberately malicious or threatening in any way, but for some reason that crazed_,__cackle-giggle-chuckle_ (he could think of no other way to describe it) made every hair on his body stand on end_._

"Really now, you are neither dead nor dying. For what purpose would I want _your _souls?"

'Death's' voice, while generally low, would alter in pitch as he spoke, rising in what Ignotus thought could only be amusement. He was quite right, as this particular reaper almost always sounded amused about something.

Death's declaration had left Ignotus confused, but before he could ask what else Death could possibly want, the reaper continued.

"Though now you mention it that was the general idea yes, except you didn't fall in and drown did you?" he gestured to the river with a wave of his clawed hand. "No just a wave of the magic wand and all your troubles will all be gone~! It's not very often people get away from me once I have them in my sights you know. I think such a grand defeat is call for me to be good loser and offer you a reward, hmm?"

Ignotus got the strong impression that he was lying through his grinning teeth and he considered saying so, but his brothers (who had up until now been silently quaking in their boots) were most eager to receive Death's gifts.

And so by the powers vested in him by the forces of above and below— 'Death' delivered.

The eldest brother asked for "An unbeatable wand, worthy of the wizard who conquered Death!" (As he couldn't possibly just slice you in half with his Death-Scythe at any given moment, oh no) The second brother asked for "The power to recall those already claimed by Death..." which caused 'Death' no end of amusement, and he had to be given a few moments to get his (unnecessary, unless he was talking) breath back.

Ignotus continued to view Death with suspicion. He did not trust the grinning Grim Reaper. If he had truly been deprived of his three victims, surely he'd seek to rectify that as quickly as possible? After all, every person came with an expiration date stamped on the package as it were, and he knew the day would come when Death would return and cut him down like a stalk of ripened wheat. So he did the only think he could think of; he asked "For a way to leave this place without being followed by Death."

The three brothers crossed the bridge and continued on their way, leaving 'Death' standing on the riverbank. Humming merrily, he reached into his robe and pulled out a ledger. After examining it for a moment his all but permanent smile widened even further.

"Antioch Peverell, time of death: one week from today. Arrives at an inn, where he uses The Wand of Elder to kill his long-term rival (he's on the next page), and gets totally drunk to celebrate his victory. Cause of death: blood loss. A thief who heard him brag about his 'unbeatable wand' will find him passed out and slit his throat."

"Oh~! Well I guess I'll be seeing you very soon then!" he called cheerfully after their retreating backs. The two elder brothers either didn't hear him or were just determined to remain blissfully ignorant.

Ignotus however, shuddered at the glee he'd heard in 'Death's' voice. He made a mental note to stay hidden under his new cloak for as long as was physically possible.

* * *

**Little Whinging  
Surrey  
1988**

Privet Drive was the most perfectly ordinary suburb a person could possibly imagine. It was the kind of place where appearance was everything and the other residents policed the state of one's house and garden. Each tidy little household was expected to fall into line with certain standards; and it was practically an unspoken law that all places of residence on Privet Drive should resemble the front of a homes and garden magazine.

For example: if Mrs Lockwood had trimmed her lawn to precisely two and half inches long, banished any and all weeds and colour coordinated her flowerbeds, anyone whose garden did not follow her example would be on the receiving end of coldly disapproving stares for weeks afterwards until the error corrected itself. That was just the way of the neighbourhood.

The residents of Privet Drive were the kind of people who hated anything that did not meet their standard of normal. If it didn't fit in with their boring, law-abiding lives then they did not approve of it, endorse it, or encourage it in any fashion.

The Dursley family of number four strictly obeyed the code of Privet Drive. They were the most unlikely people imaginable to get caught up in anything strange or mysterious, because they simply didn't put up with such rubbish.

Unfortunately a big bombshell of non-conforming, Un-Dursley-ness had been left on their very doorstep seven years earlier. The bombshell in question was none other than the orphaned son of Lily and James Potter, and Petunia's nephew. Once they realised they were being all but threatened into compliance they had agreed very begrudgingly, and with much glowering, to allow him houseroom.

The boy, whose name was Harry, was just as strange and unnatural as his weirdo parents had been before him. The Dursley's may have given him a roof over his head but they weren't just going to tolerate his abnormality (imagine the bad influence that would have on their son!) They swore they'd put a stop to it and squash the freakishness right out of him.

So through the combined efforts of the Dursley's and their young son Dudley, Harry Potter was kept as downtrodden as possible. At a young age his extremely house-proud Aunt had educated him in the art of cooking, cleaning and being a general dogsbody. His Uncle Vernon had gifted him with a low sense of self-worth and a mistrust of authority figures. Dudley was an overindulged spoiled brat who enjoyed beating the tar out of his smaller cousin on a regular basis.

For seven long years of drudgery Harry had been neglected and ostracized. He had no friends, not even at school where the children who didn't taunt him for his baggy clothes and broken glasses were too scared to play with him in case they were targeted by Dudley and his friends. While they were still too young to appreciate the concept of an actual gang, that's certainly the direction 'Dudders' and friends would be heading down a few years from now.

Through his solitude Harry had been forced to learn how to do things for himself, and as much as he may not have liked being a slave to his relatives, it had granted him a level of independence that someone like Dudley would never know.

It was just before seven in the morning and Harry lay curled into a ball atop his thin, lumpy mattress as his empty stomach vocally alerted him to its displeasure. Shifting uncomfortably he attempted to squeeze in a bit of extra sleep before Aunt Petunia woke him for school (Dudley was allowed to sleep in half an hour later than he was).

Sure enough, not five minutes later came the sound of harsh knocking on his cupboard door.

"Get up! Up!" He heard the click of the bolt being drawn back followed by the sound of his Aunt's retreating footsteps along the hall.

Knowing that delaying the inevitable would be pointless, Harry quickly got dressed and ventured out into the hallway.

The boy who emerged from the cupboard was rather small and scrawny for his age. Which wasn't all that surprising considering that he spent a good amount of time in a cramped, dark space, as the cupboard beneath the stairs was where he slept.

If a plant is kept shut away from sunlight and not given enough sustenance you can't really expect it grow properly. The same held true for Harry. His face was somewhat lacking in the round chub of baby fat most eight-year-olds had, and his skin had an almost unhealthy pallor. He wore plain round glasses that had met with Dudley's fist one too many times which were held together with poorly wrapped Sellotape. The glasses shielded a pair of bright, vividly green eyes. His jet-black hair was untameable and the back stuck up at strange angles. The clothes he wore, which had originally been Dudley's, looked ridiculously large on his own bony frame.

"Aren't you up yet?" Aunt Petunia demanded shrilly.

"I'm coming!" Harry called back. He hurried into the kitchen.

Aunt petunia was wiping down the kitchen surfaces. They were already fastidiously clean, but Petunia Dursley wasn't the type to break an established routine, even if an atom bomb fell outside. She looked up at him briefly before jerking her head at the stove.

"Keep an eye on the bacon, my Duddykins needs a proper, nutritional breakfast so he can do his very best in school." Never mind the fact that her son was in danger of being rounder than he was tall, and that the only thing he achieved at school was being a bigger bully than everyone else.

"Yes Aunt Petunia," came the subservient reply.

* * *

That afternoon Harry crossed Wisteria Walk as slowly as possible, dreading what would occur when he returned home. They'd know already—Dudley would have told them straight away. It's not like his cousin would ever miss an opportunity to land him in hot water. After all watching Harry be punished was something he found highly amusing.

_'But__ it __wasn't __my__ fault!'_ he protested to himself. '_How__ could __I __have __turned__ the __old __cow's __wig __blue? __That's __not __even__ possible!' _the trouble was 'not possible' happened around him quite a lot.

_'Uncle__ Vernon__ will __punish __me __no__ matter __what __I __say. __Dudley __will__ tell__ him __she__ embarrassed __me, __that'll__ be__ seen __as __a__ motive __and __I'll __be __lucky__ if __I'm__ allowed __out __of __my __cupboard __this __side __of __Christmas._'

His face flushed at the memory; how he had failed to read the problem on the blackboard, his classmate's taunts and jeers. _'Totally __unfair_, _it's __not __like __I __could __see __the __board __properly __anyway__…__'_It was true. Harry's glasses had been broken so many times that it was a miracle they could even sit across his nose anymore. Not to mention he probably needed a new prescription anyway. It had been ages since he last had a proper eye test.

He reached the turning that would lead to Privet Drive. Letting out a sigh, he began steeling himself for the punishment that would lay in wait when he walked through the front door.

* * *

Perched on the rooftop of number seven, was what appeared to be a rather effeminate man wearing a stylish suit and an almost obscenely bright red coat, which matched his thigh-length hair. He was in fact not a man as such (he often referred to himself in feminine terms and encouraged others to view him as a woman but that's by the by) but a Death God by the name of Grell Sutcliff.

Grell sat on the slant of the roof with one heeled ankle boot crossing the other, his gloved fingers drumming on the shingles. He huffed impatiently, blowing a strand of hair from his face before growling in frustration.

"Argh! It's not fair that William keeps giving me all these shitty jobs! I should be off somewhere painting the streets with the blood of whores and putting the fear of Death into serial killers—stuff like that! Not stuck on a roof waiting for some bratty kid who can't even show up to his own death on time! Seriously, where the hell is this kid?"

Adjusting his red-framed glasses he withdrew his Death List and examined it closely.

"Okay, right place, right time—and yet no kid. Why not?"

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the anger drained from his face only to be replaced with an exaggerated pout. (It would have looked convincing until you got close enough to see his almost shark-like teeth. They would have ruined the image.)

"I can't exactly go back without the soul either. Last time I did that Will was incredibly pissed off and I was buried under a paperwork avalanche for a month. Though he really does look so damn sexy when he's angry, it just gives me _shivers_…"

Had he been paying attention to the street below as opposed to having inappropriate fantasies about his boss, he would have noticed his target turn into Privet Drive, walking with his head bowed low.

Perhaps it was because his head was down, or maybe it was the dodgy glasses—but either way Harry Potter stepped off the curb and did not see the rapidly oncoming car. So he stepped right in front of it.

The sound of squealing tires caught Grell's attention and he looked up just in time to witness the boy's body roll to a stop as the hit and run driver made a swift get away.

* * *

Harry had been lost in thought, his feet feeling like weighted lead as he slowly trekked ever closer to number four, trying to delay the confrontation for as long as possible.

He supposed he hadn't been paying attention to where he was going because the next thing he knew something big and very solid whammed into him at high speed. He felt the breath be forced from his body and was sure he'd felt (and heard) a nasty crunching sensation in a few places. Then he was dimly aware of sailing through the air, before coming back to earth with a thud.

At this point his thought process wasn't working very well and the best he could manage was _'Ouch!__ This__ really __hurts,__ you__ know.'_

* * *

Grell surveyed the scene briefly before stowing his records and manifesting his Death-Scythe, which took the shape of a chainsaw.

"Hmph! Finally. I've been waiting around for _ages_, and for such a commonly mundane death. I can't even see any blood! Must be mostly internal injuries, how very _dull__._"

He leapt down from the roof, landing beside the crumpled form of the boy. One arm was bent the wrong way and it looked like a couple of ribs had been shattered. He revved the engine of his Death-Scythe.

"And for you—Death has arrived!" he announced theatrically before plunging the rotating blade into the boy's chest.

Instead of the expected shower of blood this act would normally produce, there was a flash of light and rolls of cinematic film began unfurling from the entry wound. Time seemed to freeze as clips of the boy's almost pathetically short life flashed in front of him_._

Grell affixed his full attention to these records and observed…

_There was a woman with pretty red hair shielding a baby from a man in a dark hooded robe, pleading for her son's life. A clichéd evil laugh, followed by a flash of bright green light, and then her body dropping to the floor. Then came a second flash of light, followed by an agonized scream, a strange tearing sound and an explosion._

_Sleeping in a small, dark cupboard. Being ridiculed and beaten by an obese blond boy. The boy working like a slave while the same fat-arse lazed around endlessly stuffing his face. Then a large man with a face puce from anger shouting and dragging the kid along by the arm, saying that there'd be no meals for him anytime soon._

"Well while you're better off than some, your life hasn't exactly been all puppy dogs and sweets, has it Harry Potter?" Grell smiled ruefully down at the small, battered corpse.

_Then__ came__ an__ image__ of __a __revolting __jumper _(a crime against fashion in Grell's opinion)_, __shrinking __to __an__ un-wearable__ size. __Levitating__ objects. __Hair __that __when__ shaved __off, __grew__ back__ to the __length __it __had__ been __before __in __the __space__ of __a__ single __night._

"Oh so he was a wizard then? I can't even remember the last time I reaped the soul of an actual wizard. Not that he got the chance to do much magic though." he conceded.

_Then came the scene of the approaching car and the impact that had ultimately put an end to his short life._

"Oh how the good die young! Or something like that." Grell pulled out his Death List, ready to mark the kid as done, when something rather odd occurred.

The reels of Harry Potter's cinematic record began turning in reverse, folding back on themselves, and winding their way inside his body. On Grell's paperwork a stamp saying 'Rejected' spontaneously appeared across Harry Potter's profile.

Under Grell's surprised gaze the broken arm suddenly didn't seem quite as broken as it had been, and judging by the way his ribcage appeared to be shifting about, there were probably some repairs going on inside as well.

Grell banished his Death-Scythe and stared. He recalled a lesson from back in his days at The Reaper's Academy; that it was possible for a Death God to extend the life of a dying human if they were going to be of benefit to the world as a whole (though humans like that were obviously quite rare).

What was really strange was that he hadn't even done anything. The cinematic record had done its own thing, as had the paperwork and the boy's now no longer life-threatening injuries.

As the flow of time restored itself to its normal pace it appeared one of the neighbours had finally noticed an unconscious, battered child lying in the middle of the road. Doors flew open and the emergency services were dialled while nosy neighbours peered through gaps in their net curtains.

Amidst all this and completely invisible to the humans milling around, Grell Sutcliff stood and thought. He decided he should get back to the office and find out what the hell just happened.

So he was totally not expecting a voice to pop up right next to his ear and say:

"My my my~ well that was certainly interesting!"

* * *

**The formatting on this site keeps behaving strangely when I edit this story. So if you notice anything out of place (lack of spaces, the entire thing in italics...) please let me know. I'd be very grateful.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well hello there~! I'm back with chapter 2. It's a little shorter than originally planned, but that material is being added into chapter 3.**

**A big thank you to everyone who reviewed/alerted/faved you are wonderful people.**

* * *

As Harry Potter's broken body lay abandoned on the road, his consciousness was somewhere else altogether.

He had felt a bizarre tingling sensation, followed by a constricting pressure that ran along his limbs. It was almost as if his body had become too tight for him and was forcing him out.

When the pressure stopped he felt unbelievably free and weightless. Almost as if he could just get up and fly away. Just as he was contemplating doing this, he suddenly found himself hurtling along a tunnel in the dark. _'Not like a train tunnel, trains don't go around and around like a great big noodle.' _He thought to himself.

Then the tunnel came to an end and he found himself sitting in a big, cushiony armchair. Attempting to take stock of his surroundings, he found that he could see nothing apart from a whole lot of foggy whiteness.

Not bothered very much by this, Harry simply settled down in the extremely comfy chair and attempted to make out shapes in the whiteness. It wasn't going so well, it appeared to Harry that fog simply didn't compare to clouds when you were playing this kind of game. He contemplated for a moment whether he should get off the chair or if he would go tumbling through the mist, when something caught his attention. It was a muted tapping sound almost like—? Footsteps. There was someone else here too! Looking around curiously, he noticed a blurred shape coming towards him.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Yes definitely footsteps, and now they were closer he could hear them better and decided they sounded like those shoes with the tall heels Aunt Petunia sometimes wore to Uncle Vernon's work parties. It couldn't be Aunt Petunia could it?

As he debated if she'd found out about Mrs Henderson's blue wig and was coming to tell him off for it, the shape in the fog yielded an unexpected splurge of colour.

_'Red?'_

Then the red thing was right in front of him and it moved. He felt a sharp twinge in his chest. It wasn't pain exactly; there was no pain in this place. But it was unpleasant none the less.

It felt as if someone had pulled the proverbial rug (or chair, in his case) out from beneath him and the world was doing cartwheels, while images flashed before his eyes. No that wasn't right; it was more like being the little plastic snowman at the bottom of one of those snow globes while someone shook it, over and over again— only the flurry of swirling snowflakes formed vivid pictures, some of which he actually understood, remembered even, whilst others were a like a poorly filmed home video—a mish-mash of sights and sounds he couldn't recall experiencing.

'_Hang on,' _Harry frowned '_these pictures, they're my—!'_

Then like a plug being pulled it all began draining away and Harry went spinning down the plughole—and his essence spiralled all the way back into its mortal cage of flesh and bone.

* * *

Grell gave a shriek that was high-pitched enough to cause considerable damage to a person's eardrums, and if he had actually needed a heartbeat he'd probably be having palpitations. However at the sound of quiet chuckling, the surprise quickly morphed into anger and Grell turned in a whirl of flying hair and coat to glare at the being lurking behind him.

There stood Undertaker, clad in his morbid best—top hat and all, sporting his customary grin and snickering into his oversized sleeve.

"Oh. It's_ you._" Grell's voice was strangely flat.

The Undertaker tilted his head slightly to one side, observing Grell curiously.

"Why you—! What," Grell snarled "the hell do you think you're doing, sneaking up on a lady like that!"

He raised his hand and swung, aiming straight for Undertaker's face, only to miss as he simply reclined his body slightly sideways. He did however manage to catch the edge of the retired reaper's hat, knocking it clean off his head.

Grell's froze, his rage forgotten, as an inexplicable chill passed over him. He flicked his eyes nervously up to what could be seen of Undertaker's face. He wasn't frowning (Grell supposed, if you smiled almost constantly maybe your facial muscles simply _forgot _how to frown?), though the smile was gone, and he could practically feel those hidden eyes radiating disapproval at him through the hair that always obscured them. (Which Grell had always considered a damn shame because he really did have _wonderful eyes_…)

Tittering nervously, he stooped down and retrieved the hat off the ground. Carefully brushing it off he meekly offered it to Undertaker, who remained perfectly still and stared (at least Grell assumed he was staring—for all he knew he could be rolling his eyes at him or something) at Grell, who found it rather unnerving. Then the corner of his lips curled upwards and he took the hat and replaced it carefully on his head.

Grell exhaled unnecessarily as the oppressive atmosphere was lifted from him.

"So, Undertaker! It's been awhile hasn't it? Oh would you look at you—! Haven't changed a bit! Oh well of course you haven't, you're immortal after all, well I am too obviously—never mind. We should go get coffee or something—_'and now I'm babbling. Merciful Death, when did I become a babbler? It's all his fault! Taking advantage of a lady's fragile nature with his creepy, err— creepy-ness! That sicko! … Ooh! I hope he does it again sometime~!'  
_  
"Oh~ has it? Time does fly. And as for the coffee…I'm really more of a tea person. Now's not a good time though. I'm here on business you see. Though you're always welcome to come try out one of my 'special coffins' of course."

Grell was now confused. In between his reaction at being snuck up on and the 'scary hat incident' he had completely forgotten to ask what the older Death God was even doing here. "Business? But aren't you retired?" '_And you actually still make those?'_

Undertaker's smile was now back in full force. "Well technically _yes_, but this incident with the kid there—" he pointed to where Harry Potter was being loaded into the back of an ambulance- "is connected to a 'job' I was given a long time ago. I've got to oversee the outcome, make sure it all goes smoothly—tie up the loose ends."

"A job _you _had? Then you know what's going on." It wasn't a question.

"Do I~? Do I really? Hmm, I wonder…"

Grell sighed in annoyance. "Is it too much to ask you to give a straight answer for once in your existence?"

Undertaker smiled brightly. "Oh, you can ask certainly~! Never any harm in asking!"

"Right. So are you going to tell me? And don't start asking me to make you laugh; I'm really not in the mood."

The Undertaker looked rather disappointed. "Ah, really? That's a shame. Well then. Perhaps I didn't know that he'd live, but then again maybe I did. Either one will do." He beamed at an irritated Grell. "Oh and by the by, that noisy boss of yours—William isn't it? The one that gets all uptight over nothing—he seems to have interest in this particular soul too." Undertaker glanced skyward suddenly. "Oh and there he is~!"

Even someone as keen eyed as Mrs Dursley, with her many years practicing her spying skills on the neighbours, would not have noticed the man that descended amidst the citizens of Privet Drive.

William T Spears, supervisor of the Death God Dispatch Department touched down on the tarmac noiselessly and without so much as a hair out of place. Spotting his fellow Death Gods, he began walking briskly in their direction.

His walk, like most everything else about him, screamed of a decisive efficiency. His appearance comprised of a plain black business suit and tie, rectangular glasses, and neat dark brown hair. The only thing that separated him appearance-wise from a bank manager of some kind was the fact the he was carrying some kind of metal pole with what seemed to be hedge clippers on either end. This eccentricity by no means detracted from the austereness of his appearance. He had the look of man that would expect you to show up to work on time even if you'd had all of your limbs hacked off, your mother had suddenly died, and your house had just burned down.

Not to say all of that was necessarily true, but first impressions tend to linger.

So needless to say there have been more than a few conflicts of interest between this man and his redheaded, flamboyant, dress code flaunting subordinate.

"Grell Sutcliff."

Grell gulped and fidgeted slightly on the spot. He knew he hadn't actually done anything wrong, but years of having William speak to him in that harsh, unforgiving tone (which made Grell simultaneously unnerved and aroused) taught him to expect to be reprimanded for _something_.

"Yes, Will?"

"Explain what happened here. And do refrain from addressing me so informally."

* * *

"So, let me get this straight. What you're telling me is, that Harry Potter's cinematic record somehow just acted of its own accord, and that—ignoring the laws of Death as we have established them entirely—his soul just _decided _that it wasn't ready to leave yet?" William sighed loudly. "Good grief—there's always _something_ isn't there? When will the work end?"

"Ah~ poor, poor Willykins, doomed to clock up the overtime and fill out paperwork for all eternity~! _Gufuffu_!" The Undertaker dissolved into spastic cackles that were so loud the bulb from a nearby streetlamp was rattled loose and narrowly missed striking an unfortunate Grell on the head. ("Hey, watch it—that nearly got my face you careless jerk! That laugh of yours is a dangerous weapon!")

William's stiffened at hearing his name be mutilated in such a manner and he looked like he dearly wanted to give Undertaker a good whack with his Death-Scythe. He didn't though, because in spite of his former superior's very eccentric behaviour, William could never bring himself to be so disrespectful towards him. Not to mention the paperwork that would ensue from assaulting a management level Death God. William repressed a shudder at the thought.

"But Will—it's true!" came Grell's petulant response to the suggestion that he might be anything less than totally sincere. "I know what I saw, and I know I sure as hell didn't grant the kid a second chance at life. Someone must like him up there."

Undertaker was still experiencing the aftershocks of his laugh, but decided to give his opinion. "Or maybe it's just that he hasn't finished all it was foretold he would finish, hmm~?

"Foretold he would…?" William sighed and adjusted his glasses with the tip of his Death-Scythe. "Undertaker, is there anything you'd care to share?"

"Oh I wonder now, is there? _Huhuhu_~ I suppose I've had my laugh at your expense. Very well then."

He leaned back against a convenient garden wall and spoke. "Destiny guides the paths of mortals… and one with the gift of the second sight foretold Harry Potter's destiny before he was even born. The game of fate has been waiting for him—the missing piece—all this time, so that play could resume."

Grell's eye twitched in annoyance. "Don't you have anything more useful to say?"

William, who was considerably more experienced at interpreting Undertaker-ese, adjusted his glasses again and stated, "A prophecy. Harry Potter is the subject of a prophecy then. Did this prophecy happen to state that he alone could save the world and cause the downfall of a feared and powerful tyrant?"

Undertaker raised a finger to tap his lip thoughtfully. "Well I never heard the exact wording, but I'd say it's more than likely."

Grell huffed. "You don't know? What the hell good are you then?"

William moved faster than a striking cobra and struck Grell on the head with his Death-Scythe.

"Oww! William, how could you treat a lady that way?"

William stared at him coolly. "Quite easily. Show your superiors proper respect, Sutcliff. You can easily be demoted."

"But Will—!"

"Oh shut up. We will discuss this later." William raised a hand and rubbed at his temples. He could feel a headache coming on. "Whether this prophecy is relevant to anything or not, I came here with a different reason for investigating this child."

He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and continued.

"On the night of October 31st 1981, I was sent to collect the souls of this boy's parents—Lily and James Potter, and the soul of their killer—one Tom Marvolo Riddle. James Potter was killed by a death curse and was no trouble to collect. Before I collected the mother, it seemed she'd used some extremely powerful blood based magic to create a shield for her infant son; one that required her to use her own life as a willing sacrifice. Riddle killed her when she wouldn't move aside; he only seemed interested in the son. Now that I am aware there is a prophecy involved that makes a lot more sense. He wanted him out of the way."

Grell rolled his eyes, "Stupid humans and their 'evil overlords.' They never learn do they? Seriously, take note from Macbeth. Shakespeare knew what he was talking about."

William continued as if there had been no interruption. "When he turned his attention to the child his magic rebounded on him—the combined result of the death curse and the protective magic that he was struck with was powerful enough that he left behind no remains. That really should have been the end of it."

"However," William's eyes narrowed to slits and his lips were pressed into a thin line. "It appears Riddle had used vile magic in an attempt to gain immortality, going as far as to tamper with his own soul, wilfully splitting it into pieces."

Grell looked mildly surprised. "A soul can be split by a human? How?"

Undertaker nodded vaguely. "Oh yes—it happens quite often actually. The act of killing in cold blood rips the soul apart." The Undertaker mimed slicing motions through the air with his long nails. "Though only the craft of wizards could completely tear off—and make use of—the loose piece like that. It is a violation—only those with no understanding of the true nature of the soul would dare attempt such a thing."

"Indeed." agreed William. "To do so is regarded by Death Gods as a serious crime—an act that will not be forgiven. Most humans have no regard for what becomes of their own souls. They're such selfish creatures, caring for nothing but their own instant gratification. Selling a soul is despicable enough, but deliberately butchering it in that manner? That wizard has been fortunate so far, because if I ever come across a fragment of his soul I will not hesitate to purge it from existence."

"Which is why I came here in the first place. Since that night I have come to the conclusion that Riddle hacked apart his soul so many times that he rendered it very unstable. After I collected the soul of Lily Potter I noticed a fragment of it had been knocked loose. It had attached itself to the boy, the only living creature in the house, as _parasites_ are wont to do." His lip curled in distaste.

"And you couldn't just get rid of it because then you would've had to kill the little shrimp before his time was up right?" asked Grell.

William readjusted his glasses. "Correct. I was originally intending to wait until the child died to separate the fragment from his own soul. But as he is still with the living, it seems the fragment will have to stay where it is for now."

His frown deepened slightly. "And as much as I would rather not deal with this any further, the situation cannot be left as it is. You," he looked to the Undertaker, "clearly know far more than you are letting on. Whether you can't tell us or just plain don't want to, is not of my concern. Though as I said the situation can't simply be left like this. So while you are obviously under no obligation to do anything, I would be most glad for your assistance in this matter."

"Hmm…? Well… alright then~! I suppose I'll help. I really don't see quite so many customers as I used to, so it shouldn't be a problem. There dead receive such impersonal send offs these days…_funeral parlours and crematoriums_" he scoffed beneath his breath in a tone that did not match his usual cheerful demeanour.

"Thank you. In that case…" William turned to Grell, "In light of the fact that our department is staffed considerably better than it was a century ago, I believe that we can spare a reaper for this assignment. Given the fact you've already had some contact with the soul in question I have decided that _you _will be the one remaining here to observe Harry Potter."

"What! Oh hell no! William, you don't seriously expect me stay here and baby-sit some brat do you?" Grell arranged his face into his best 'I'm just a poor little puppy please don't kick me' expression.

William quirked an eyebrow, "That was my intent yes," he replied in a tone that would have made most reapers think twice about talking back.

But Grell Sutcliff isn't 'most reapers'. And he most certainly did argue back. William Spears put up with Grell's complaining for about two minutes before hitting him over the head with his Death-Scythe again, while Undertaker grinned in the background. As Grell sat there clutching his sore head William harshly informed him that he'd do well to shut up and follow orders, and that he was fortunate he hadn't been punished for the incident with the women's restrooms last month.

"So it's settled then," said William, completely ignoring Grell's pouting. "I expect you to check in on a fortnightly basis with your status reports. It's likely that from time to time, you will be assigned to the collection of any souls located in the boy's surrounding area. I may also drop in occasionally. If I ever get the time." he muttered this last sentence darkly.

"Oh and Sutcliff? Remain unnoticed by mortal eyes. That means no terrifying sales clerks on shopping sprees, _no _running around with your Death-Scythe in plain view and most importantly, _no revealing yourself to Harry Potter_. Am I understood?"

"Yes William." Grell replied glumly. Undertaker just stood and smiled mysteriously.

"Then I shall take my leave. Ensure that you are in the vicinity when he returns from hospital."

As the Death God supervisor turned and began walking away, seeming to just fade out of sight with each step he took until he vanished completely.

* * *

Harry Potter lazily eyed a spider as it crawled its way across the ceiling of his dark cupboard. He was quite used to spiders; the cupboard had always been full of them.

Despite being temporarily dead two days before, Harry himself looked more or less unchanged. His left arm was encased in a thick cocoon of plaster and he had more bruises than if he'd just played ten games of Harry Hunting with Dudley and gang, the largest of which was on his head from where he'd smacked onto the pavement. Fortunately his concussion seemed to have left no lasting effects.

Two of his ribs had been cracked and to his dismay nothing could be done about them other than to let them heal naturally. He'd been moving around with a careful slowness when he returned to Privet Drive that morning, praying that Dudley wouldn't accidentally knock into him or something. One good thing had seemed to come from the accident at least. While Aunt Petunia remained deaf to all reports of her son's bullying, she seemed to have had words with Dudley warning him against harming Harry. Well, until he recovered at least. But until then Harry could enjoy the respite from being Dudley's punching bag.

Though while nothing drastic had physically changed, that isn't to say that Harry was quite the same.

Ever since that incident with the misty room—which Harry could only explain as being a crazy dream, he'd felt this _thing _that escaped his understanding. He felt as though he could 'feel' some kind of presence—like people that were nowhere near him.

Harry compared it to being at the centre of one of those webs the littler tenants of his cupboard were so skilled at making, while other spiders walked down a thousand different threads, and the threads thrummed with energy—some of them distant and almost silent, while others felt as though they were passing close by. They differed in size too; the littler ones were like embers, small and dim, and the majority glowed brightly, while a very small few seemed to flame with an unstoppable boldness—the fire of greater power than their counterparts.

When he'd left the hospital, the stronger feelings had seemed to die down a bit, and it seemed his proximity to whatever was causing these feelings was shrinking. But when they arrived back in Privet Drive, a great crushing wave of sensation overwhelmed him, causing him to sway and nearly fall. He was drowning in this aura—this presence. He may not have the skill to be able to properly separate and identify these 'presences,' but Harry had a hunch that if the presences were spiders, then there were a couple of tarantulas lurking around somewhere nearby.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey everyone! First of all my deepest apologies for taking so long with this chapter. You would not believe—I swear this chapter is cursed! I won't go on about it though, but thank you for your patience. And to everyone who reviewed/faved/alerted you're wonderful people so thank you!**

* * *

There was really nothing about the 17th of May to suggest it was any different from the 15th or 16th, or indeed, any of the days that came before it. It was a calm day, with skies the colour of a robin's egg and the yellow egg-yolk sun cheerfully cast down its rays into the garden of number four. Cast them straight down onto the back of Harry's neck in fact, causing said neck skin to resemble the illegitimate lovechild of a tomato and a beetroot.

The small, thin fingers of his good arm tenderly probed the affected area, before withdrawing sharply with a hiss. Harry's skin never did agree with bright sunshine. He was the type of boy who going to the beach, (not that his relatives would ever dream of taking _him _to the beach) would never ever tan. It was as if tan and Harry were completely unable to connect, like water and oil, or Uncle Vernon and salesmen that rang the doorbell at eight o' clock on Sunday mornings.

Harry tugged the collar of his misshapen T-shirt in an attempt to cover the burn and prevent it from getting any worse, before returning his gaze back to a vindictively stubborn weed that refused to dislodge itself from the soil of Petunia Dursley's otherwise pristine flowerbed.

He'd been working out in the garden for an hour or so, ever since his Aunt ejected him from his cupboard/bed and told him to do the gardening as the fresh air might do him good. Well, that and the fact that if he wasn't at school he would be making himself useful, recently hit by a car or not. Conveniently enough the high fences and thick rhododendrons hid him from the very few people who _might _have protested against him doing labour in his current condition. (And there were very few. Harry wasn't exactly well liked in the neighbourhood. Look at him the scruffy little urchin—always covered in bruises from fights that he no doubt started. The ungrateful hooligan)

He gave the wretched spawn of Satan's shrubbery (yes, Harry was convinced the Devil was into gardening—why else would he be forced to do it otherwise?) several more fruitless tugs before pausing to catch his glasses, which had been steadily sliding further and further down his sweaty nose. They were new glasses—the other pair having been smashed so thoroughly they were unrecognizable from the tarmac of the road—and were as of yet untouched by Dudley's hammy fists. Harry was rather fond of them (having never had anything new within memory) though the Dursley's had been loath to pay for them, claiming he'd wreck them like the last pair, while conveniently ignoring the fact that the wrecking of the previous pair had been caused by their son.

Harry's throat was parched and the cracks in his lips felt like canyons beneath the sweep of his tongue. He chanced a glance at the kitchen window and saw Aunt Petunia was absent from her usual neighbour-watching spot. Deciding to risk her wrath in favour of quenching his thirst he headed into the shade of the spotlessly clean kitchen.

As it happened Aunt Petunia didn't appear to be home at all, which was in itself quite unusual. Harry was never usually left alone in case the freakishness of his being somehow caused the house to explode.

Young though he may be, Harry was nothing if not an opportunist and instantly drained a glass of water, before rifling in the cupboard for sun lotion and after-burn. Once he'd finished applying the soothing cream to all his exposed skin, he decided to have some more water while he still could, and was just lifting the glass to his lips when he was stricken by an increasingly familiar (and increasingly unwelcome) wave of nausea causing him to sway and drop the glass on the kitchen tiles.

Feeling unbearably dizzy he slumped to the floor, careless of the broken shards that threatened to slice his skin. Assuming foetal position he frantically gulped lungful's of air, as his tender ribs burned from the pressure—

Then the feeling passed just as swiftly as it came.

Now as a child, there were a lot of things Harry had to put up with, whether he liked them or not. He put up with his relatives' attitude towards him. He put up with being the kid no one liked. He put up with his 'babysitter' Mrs Figg and her smelly feline houseguests. Of all the things he was forced to put up with however, the one he absolutely _despised _was the thing that separated him from everyone else. And that thing was those unnatural occurrences that made him a freak and an outcast, even to his only living family. The worst part of all was that these things had no reasonable explanation and the Dursley's always blamed him for them. Harry may not have been at the top of his class, but he was no idiot. While it was possible that his relatives were using him as a scapegoat for a series of bizarre coincidences, Harry knew the Dursley's disapproved of the idea of coincidence almost as much as they disapproved of imagination. This, even to his eight year old brain, suggested they must have some reason for saying he was the cause of it all.

Harry had, many times, tried to figure out what this reason could possibly be. He was hampered in finding the truth however, by the Dursley policy of 'don't ask questions.' Unable to get the truth from a direct source, he was forced to come up with his own theory.

It had come to him one day; when Dudley had been gloatingly showing off his new games console. As he watched Dudley blow up a rebel space station Harry Potter wondered if he might be an alien.

To him, the idea of being from another planet not only made sense, but also held some measure of appeal. If he were an alien, the strange occurrences could be explained away as his extra-terrestrial powers. It would also explain why he knew nothing about his parents. Aunt Petunia tended to act as though she'd never had a sister, and Harry wondered if it might actually be true. After all Harry was sure that the Dursley's were quite human. If he was not human, it would explain the way they treated him, because humans didn't like things that were different, and they didn't treat him the way they treated other humans.

The only thing he didn't like about his 'I'm an alien from outer space' theory was that it didn't explain how he ended up with the Dursley's in the first place. He supposed he could always ask his space alien parents, if he ever met them.

And there lay the appeal.

Harry thought that, if he were from another world, there might be people (or alien-people) there that were like him. People that wouldn't avoid him and say mean things. People that might understand him. Maybe he even had a family there.

As he crouched on the kitchen tiles, pondering this already much pondered idea, Harry thought that maybe these strange nausea inducing presences were actually other aliens that were signalling him that it was high time he got back to the Mother ship. It made sense to Harry. After all, he knew from geography class that population of earth was bigger than the amount of presences he'd 'felt' on his return from hospital. There had been a lot sure, but unless the presences were a particular minority, then they weren't human.

He was disrupted from further pondering the meaning of his existence by the return of Aunt Petunia, who walked in to see her sweaty, dirty nephew sitting on a pile of broken glass in her nice clean kitchen.

As his ears were assaulted by his Aunt's angered ranting Harry concluded that alien communications had terrible timing.

* * *

Privet Drive had a number of houses, the number being equal to less than a lot but more than a few. Which logically means the number of rooftops was also less than a lot, but more than a few. These rooftops were all but perfectly identical, aside from the temporary addition of a roosting bird or two. Mr and Mrs Dursley would have been quite alarmed to learn that _their _rooftop had been playing host to a pair of rather unusual 'birds' for the past week. However, fortunately for their peace of mind the Dursley's couldn't see the 'birds' at all.

The 'birds' (who were of course, not _really _birds at all) had a habit of perching on the rooftop of number four. They also had a habit of closely observing Harry Potter, so it really came as no surprise that his little bouts of nausea did not go unnoticed.

"Hey, Undertaker?"

"Hmm~?"

"Why does he keep doing that?" questioned Grell from his seat besides the chimney.

"What's that~?" the Undertaker replied around a mouthful of bone-shaped cookie.

Grell huffed impatiently. "I'm asking; why does the kid keep swooning like that? He's not going to just drop dead is he?" Grell visibly perked up at this thought. "Ooh that would be great. Then I could get back to be a real Reaper, instead of babysitting the-brat-who-didn't-want-to-stay-dead."

The other Death God didn't answer, and Grell supposed either; He wasn't sure himself, or that he could be getting just a little annoyed with all Grell's complaining. (After all, Undertaker wasn't overly fond of William—and he didn't do anything aside from complain, albeit in a more business oriented manner) And Grell could admit he'd been sulking in a rather unbecoming fashion ever since he'd been given this job. If it weren't for the Undertaker's regular 'assistance' he probably would have pulled another Jack the Ripper. He couldn't help it—this place was _so boring_. There was no blood, no Death, no screaming, and no hot men to ogle. Unless he counted Undertaker. Though given that damnable hair of his (oh how he wanted to take a pair of scissors to that fringe!) along with the more layers of clothing than could possibly be necessary (in Grell's opinion anyway) there wasn't much left for actual ogling.

Grell sighed. He needed to go shopping or something.

* * *

**Privet Drive**  
**19th May**  
**1.30pm**

Harry was on the verge of suffering a breakdown. The reason? He'd made Dudley disappear. As in '_snap— it's gone!' _disappear. And he really had no idea what to do about it.

It had all started in the kitchen, where Harry had been attempting to sneak a snack, as he hadn't eaten yet that day and was starving, only to run into Dudley, who seemed to be plotting the same thing. Well actually Dudley kind of ran into him. Literally. And as he was the one with cracked ribs, he was the one in pain here. Dudley naturally found the whole thing hilarious. Biting his lip to stifle his pained gasp, while white dots danced across his vision, Harry had a sudden powerful urge for his maliciously chuckling cousin to be gone. He'd opened his eyes at a loud popping sound and blinked at finding the kitchen quite absent of Dudley.

This led him back to his present situation. That being Dudley's '_snap__—_it's gone!' disappearance.

He might have taken a moment to revel in the absence of his tormentor if it were it not for the fact that if his strange act of will (which may or may not involve aliens) caused anything bad to happen to Dudley, Aunt Petunia would probably murder him with a butcher knife and bury his corpse under the begonias. Snapping out of his shock, he raced from the kitchen and frantically searched every room in the house, before rushing outside to search there.

* * *

**The roof of number four  
At the same time**

Grell was decidedly _not_ amused when the air above him went '_pop_' and something warm, meaty, and not exactly lightweight crashed into his back, squishing him face first onto the shingles.

"_Argh!_ Undertaker! Don't just sit there! Get it off! What is it anyway? Wait a sec, it's that fat kid! Undertaker! Get this bloody _obese child_ the hell off of me!" he shrieked while trying to throw Dudley off without actually _throwing him off_. Off the roof that is. Never mind paperwork—William would have him doing janitorial duty for the next century if he offed someone not on the Death List (…_again_).

It seemed though, that Undertaker wasn't going to help, he was too busy rolling around laughing at the sight of Grell, who currently resembled a flailing, pointy toothed turtle with a human for a shell. In fact he was laughing so much that he had to catch himself from falling over the edge of the roof.

"For Hades sake—_Undertaker_! This fat-arse is in need of some serious dieting— I can't breathe!"

Tears of mirth still running down his cheeks, the Undertaker didn't bother to point out that Grell didn't need to breathe and removed Dudley anyway. Before Grell could do anything more than glare murderously at the other Death God, Dudley stirred. Realising he was somehow stuck on the roof after antagonising his freak cousin, he drew in a lungful of air— presumably so he could scream for his parents, when Undertaker suddenly placed his palm flat against Dudley forehead. The blond boy's eyes rolled backwards slightly as he passed out.

Grell raised an arched, scarlet eyebrow. "Okay, what did you just do?"

"I merely erased his memory of being up here. In my experience _regular _human children don't just appear on rooftops." He said the word 'regular' in a tone that suggested he found such a thing to be utterly uninteresting. "Best for all that he doesn't have anything to fret over~. I better go put him back."

Grell was going to question him further, but was distracted by the sight of their charge hurriedly racing down the street. Undertaker took this opportunity to hop down from the roof and wander in through the open door, the unconscious Dudley slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He made his way down the hall before crossing to Harry's cupboard, tugging the door open, and tossing Dudley carelessly inside. He made his way back towards Grell, but paused suddenly before darting into the currently empty kitchen. When he returned to his seat beside Grell he had refilled his cookie-urn with the contents of the Dursley's own jar.

* * *

**Back with Harry**

He'd looked here, he'd looked there and he'd looked again—but he could find no sign of Dudley anywhere. It hadn't helped that he'd had another 'alien-induced-dizzy-spell' and had to wait until the world wasn't spinning before he could continue his search. Thankfully it seemed to be less severe this time so he had kept looking, though he remained unsuccessful.

While it was true that he didn't even like Dudley, he was beginning to get seriously concerned. What if he'd somehow sent Dudley to the North Pole or something? His mind filled with visions of an already rotund Dudley wearing a puffy Eskimo coat and trying to fend off an angry polar bear. He stifled the inappropriate (at the moment) urge to laugh hysterically. Heart heavy with trepidation, he trudged back inside to inform his Aunt of the loss of her firstborn.

"Err—Aunt Petunia, there—there's something I—something I have to tell you."

She turned to face him, frying pan in hand, her lips pursed in an expression reminiscent of someone who's been sucking a lemon. She almost called him out on causing that ruckus she'd heard on the roof a few minutes ago, but grudgingly admitted even a freak like him couldn't be in two places at once. (Well, probably not anyway. She didn't like to overthink these things, preferring to dedicate her time to shunning their existence.)

Well?" she'd snapped. "What is it? I don't have all day to waste on _you_. Oh did you see Duddy while you were out there? I called him for lunch but he hasn't come down. It's not like him."

His throat felt dryer than the Sahara going through a heat wave. Imaginary headlines, all of which involved his brutal bludgeoned-with-a-frying-pan-death, flashed through his head.

"That's just it Aunt Petunia. It's Dudley—he's gone. I—I sent him away and now I can't find him anywhere—"

Harry managed to avoid 'brutal death by frying pan' as Dudley chose that moment to emerge from (of all the unlikely places) the cupboard under the stairs, looking bewildered and rather dusty.

"Popkin? What were you doing in there?" asked a baffled Aunt Petunia.

It appeared that Dudley remembered nothing about how he'd wound up in the cupboard. So Harry quickly took this golden opportunity and cobbled together some stupid story about the two of them playing hide and seek, and saying that Dudley must have hid in the cupboard then fallen asleep. As Dudley was in no position to contradict him, he managed to escape suspicion and go unpunished. He was so relieved he could have hugged Dudley. (Though his Aunt did confine him to his cupboard later that day, when she discovered the empty cookie jar—which Harry really had no explanation for).

* * *

The spiders that dwelt in the cupboard under the stairs were quite accustomed to their larger housemate. For a human he was non-intrusive and very considerate to their kind, leaving their webs alone and never once had he shrieked and tried to flatten any of them with a shoe. Not that they could express it but in their own way, the spiders appreciated this a great deal. The spiders liked Harry in so far as a common house spider is capable of liking anything. Had they the necessary mental facilities they would even have made him an honorary arachnid.

They were not however, accustomed to him making such a fuss in his sleep. But they were spiders, and they bore the burden of his night-time mumbles and whimpering with the quiet resignation of a creature detested by the larger portion of Earth's human population.

Harry's dreams had tendency to be fragmented and utterly nonsensical to the point that a psychiatrist attempting to find meaning in them would have shed tears of sheer frustration at the utter randomness they contained.

On rare occasions though, his dreams became like an alternate world—a vivid place Harry was hesitant to tread. Tonight was such an occasion.

* * *

_There wasn't much here really, just a little collection of houses and a few shops. Harry trod in one direction with all the appearance of a person who has somewhere to be. As he navigated the streets of the village (for it was a village) he passed many people, mostly children—all garbed in the masquerade of All Hallows Eve._

_His feet continued to their destination as if drawn there by an unstoppable magnetic force. Eventually he came to a stop outside a cottage at the very end of the row. There was nothing to distinguish it from the rest, but Harry knew that this was the place._

_As he approached the gate the wind changed direction, so that it was now blowing towards him. As it caressed his face, his mouth parted, and was filled with an overpowering taste of ashes. He coughed and spluttered, quietly opening the gate and continuing up the path. The exoskeletons of dead leaves crunched beneath his feet like ages old bones, and the ash flavoured wind whispered unintelligibly in the shell of his ear._

_He approached the front door but paused at hearing the thump of something dropping to the ground. Then there was the creak of footsteps on the stairs, followed by several minutes of silence. The quiet was broken by a scream of utter despair._

_The sound chilled Harry to the marrow of his bones. Oh god, he didn't like this—he didn't like this—he wanted to leave—_

_But against his will his hand reached out. Instead of grabbing the handle his palm pressed against the door. He felt a pulse beneath his hand. Then came the feeling of drops on his head—was it raining? He reached up and touched one that had landed on his cheek. His fingers came away coated with bright red—_

_Blood. Bright red blood._

_He froze in horror before slowly glancing upwards. The blood was seeping from beneath the sill of an upstairs window like sap from a tree, viscous and thick._

_Beyond the window a shadow moved. He flinched as he heard more of those horrible, hair-raising screams. Someone laughed. It sounded like a mockery of real happiness, a poison death rattle trapped in the throat of a monster. The deep ringing of bells cut through the air._

_Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong._

_Then the skyline (and the roof) lit up with a blinding flash of green. The upstairs of the house exploded, as did a pain in Harry's head that was so intense and so sudden he stumbled and fell backwards._

_He did not land on the stone of the path, but into a pit of soft, freshly-dug earth. A pit of earth six foot deep._

_A grave to be exact._

_Harry was close to hyperventilating in panic, his head still throbbing after that flash. He was in a grave. He had to get out—had to get out—had to—he had— to get out of here. Had to get out—_

_"Well, you're quite a sight aren't you?"_

_Harry's senseless panic was overruled by his desire to get away from all this, and he latched onto the new-comer's presence like a person being swept out to sea._

_"Help! Help me—please! I don't understand, what's happening— I don't— please I— why—?"_

_"Ask not for whom the bell tolls." interrupted the other. "It tolls for thee." The voice was soft— musical even, like wind chimes made of ribs. It sounded both very young, and extremely old. "Or it did at least."_

_Harry was confused. "Huh?"_

_The voice tut-tutted lightly. "Look at you now, what a sorry little Master you are. It's like you took a tumble off your throne—but how can that be, when you've still yet to be crowned?" A subtle mockery could be heard clearly in the speaker's tone. "And no wonder at that—what kind of Master are you, when you will not even acknowledge your own servants?"_

_Ignoring the scorn in this last question Harry asked what servants the voice meant. It laughed._

_"Oh you really are something! You know they're there— you feel them! But you can't open your eyes long enough to see can you? Are you truly blind to them? Or is it that you simply enjoy being ignorant?"_

_"NO!" The force of Harry's denial echoed around the two figures one in a grave, the other just out of sight._

_"No," Harry repeated more quietly. "I know what it's like to be ignored, and I would never just ignore someone for no good reason. I don't want to be like that, I want to see," he murmured._

_The grass of the graveside rustled as the figure approached. "Do you? Do you really? If that is true then take my hand."_

_An arm, slender and pale, leaned over to pull him out of the grave, which suddenly didn't seem quite so deep. The owner of the voice smiled at him. Harry saw the white flash of their teeth, though he could not see their face. As he reached for the hand his eye was caught by a symbol worn around their neck. It was a golden triangle, encasing a circle and bisected by a vertical line. The person pulled him from the shallow grave to stand beside them, and Harry saw they were much the same height. As he gazed at their face recognition sparked and he knew them at once._

_"You're…?" he whispered. The other smiled._

_"Yes, but there will come a day for that. Open your eyes now Harry. Open them and be blind no more…"_

When Harry was awoken by Aunt Petunia the next morning, he remembered nothing of the dream whatsoever.


End file.
